A collection of consciousness with a side of mashed potatoes
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
That was not love - the line of violence, you wouldn't kiss me. Against the living room wall, I could see the blue and white pattern of the couch cover. The little one trying to speak, but lacking the vocabulary of what he was witnessing. Dusk indoors, saliva glistening on my shoulder. It excited me, but not enough. There was an absence too great to pretend I would ever do it again.